


One is Silver

by Naraht



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, New Year's Eve, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington DC pulls out all the stops on New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One is Silver

**Author's Note:**

> For Wendelah1, Christmas 2008.

Washington D.C. pulls out all the stops on New Year's Eve. So does the FBI, though in the bureau's case there is less revelry and more attention to its potential consequences. The counterintelligence division is working at a fever pitch as the end of the year approaches, combating terrorist plots and assassination threats, but the FBI's most unwanted have no part of that. On the afternoon of the 31st they sit with fifty other agents in one of the fourth floor conference rooms used to plan big team operations, sipping coffee and listening to a briefing from A.D. Skinner. The FBI's most unwanted are rarely invited to participate in big team operations anymore. They must, Mulder thinks, be scraping the bottom of the barrel for this one.

"We'll be deploying you in pairs," says Skinner, standing in front of an extravagantly sized map of downtown Washington, "spread out across the Mall and environs. Your role will be to act as plainclothes support for the DC police, and to be on hand should a more serious situation arise."

_Situation_. The bureau's euphemism for a bombing, a hostage situation, a lone shooter, or any number of equally unpleasant scenarios. Scully leans over towards Mulder. "Sounds like fun," she says in a sardonic undertone.

"Look at it this way, Scully, at least you don't have to admit that you don't have a date for New Year's Eve."

She shoots him a look and then returns her attention to the briefing. Which drags on, as such things have a habit of doing. Mulder sketches pictures of UFOs on his legal pad.

As the agents file out, Skinner grabs Mulder by the arm and pulls him aside. "Mulder, I don't want to see your name on a report tomorrow morning. I don't want to hear anything about alien infiltrations, blood-sucking goats or demon actuaries. Go out there, watch some performances, take Agent Scully to dinner, enjoy the fireworks. Don't screw up."

"Yes, sir." Skinner has just questioned Mulder's essential competence as an agent. On the other hand, he also seems to be handing Mulder the very great gift of an evening out on the town with Scully at the bureau's expense. "Thank you, sir."

Mulder decides to give his boss the benefit of the doubt. The holidays could be looking up.

***

They've arranged to meet at the Smithsonian Metro station at 6pm. So, it seems, has half of Washington. Mulder cranes his neck, searching for his diminutive partner amidst the crowds of revelers. Predictably, she's arrived before him, and is waiting by the escalator, leaning against the wall. She looks bored but that's not his fault. Not yet.

"Ready to go, Scully?"

He does a quick mental inventory, making sure that everything's in place. Wallet and badge. Cell phone turned on and in his coat pocket. Sig in its shoulder holster along with extra ammo clips. Handcuffs in an inside jacket pocket, just in case. An earpiece which he sincerely hopes he won't need. Tickets to a performance by the Washington Taiko drummers. Address of restaurant. Credit cards.

You'd never know to look at Scully that's she's similarly equipped. She's wrapped up well in one of her long, dark coats, a cashmere scarf wound around her neck, leather gloves, just another smartly dressed D.C. young professional out for an evening of fun. But when he puts his hand out to escort her onwards, he can clearly feel the shape of the holster at her back even through the wool coat. Oh yes, Scully is packing. He makes a mental note to remember not to call her "G woman" this evening.

Early fireworks cast flickering, fizzing shadows of blue and gold across the Mall, throwing bare branches into stark relief. Upturned faces watch the show. Mulder and Scully watch the faces.

Ice sculptures have crystallized here and there, lit by guttering candles. Children run and dodge through the crowds. When the fireworks are over, Mulder and Scully stroll more sedately along, admiring the sights and doing their best to look not at all like FBI agents. It isn't necessarily that difficult.

Scully pulls her scarf more closely around her, shivering slightly. Mulder leans towards her, putting his arm around her shoulder.

"I'm fine, Mulder, " she protests unconvincingly. "I'm not cold."

Mulder leans even closer, bending down so that his mouth is just by her ear, brushing against strands of her red hair. "But Scully," he says in an undertone, "_I'm_ cold."

Scully laughs and he can feel her shoulders relax. She fits perfectly tucked under his arm, and her small body is warm against his side. Together they weave through the crowds, Mulder offering a running commentary on the people who pass by. He's consciously and shamelessly trying to get her to laugh again, and he seems to be succeeding.

Overhead, Japanese paper lanterns hang in the boughs of the trees, flickering and swaying in the chilly wind. The temperature is rapidly dropping now, and the small puddles in the rutted gravel paths are edged with ice.

"Mulder," Scully announces finally, "I can't feel my toes anymore."

"I think it's time to find a restaurant." _Perfect timing_, he thinks. _Perfect timing_.

"No, I just need to warm up inside for a few minutes. Then we can get hot dogs from the hot dog stand or something. We don't want to get too far from the Mall."

"I eat at that hot dog stand every day, Scully." She rolls her eyes at him. "Besides, Skinner said that we could take time for dinner. He practically ordered us to."

They make their way north, off the Mall, past the Old Post Office and into Federal Triangle. Scully complains querulously all the way.

"All I want is to go inside for fifteen minutes and grab a slice of pizza... What's wrong with that place, Mulder? It looks fine... Mulder, where are we going?"

"Let's just see whether there's anything on the next block," says Mulder doggedly. And she follows along just as he knew she would.

Leunig's Bistro shines from the corner of the next block. Its big windows are edged with white fairy lights and decked with holly, showcasing cozy candlelit booths of dark wood and old brass where couples chat over bottles of wine. It looks inviting. It looks lovely. More to the point, it looks warm. Mulder rubs his hands together briskly and makes a point of examining the set menus.

"Oh, Mulder, no. It's way too pricey. Besides, there's no way we're going to get a table, not at seven o'clock on New Year's Eve in a place like this."

"You wanna bet?"

"What?"

With her hands on her hips, Scully looks endearingly petite, swamped by her long coat.

"I'll bet you, Scully. If I can get us a table without a wait, you agree to eat here--and to let me pay for dinner."

She holds up her hands in capitulation. "If you want to try..."

Taking the steps two at a time, Mulder lets Scully hold the door for herself. But by the time he gets to the maitre d', she's standing right behind him.

"Party of two. The name's Mulder."

"Yes, sir. Right this way."

Mulder turns just in time to see Scully's mouth forming an indignant O of surprise. Her face is flushed from the cold, her coppery hair an untidy aurole around it. He grins at her and then follows the maitre d'.

"That's cheating," comes her voice, floating after him. "No fair! You had reservations! You can't just..."

By the time they get to the booth Scully has trailed off, engaged in the complicated task of unwinding the scarf from around her neck. Taking her seat, she accepts a menu from the waiter and peeks inside.

"Mulder," she says, her voice hushed, "this looks amazing. Really wonderful."

"I thought you might like it."

"Why?" pursues Scully, every inch the investigator. "What's it all for?"

"New Year's Eve," says Mulder simply.

***

After dinner, outside seems even colder and darker. Snowflakes have begun to spiral down. Scully heaves a sigh while pulling on her gloves under a streetlight.

"Cheer up," says Mulder. "We have the Taiko drummers at ten. That's indoors."

He mimes air drumming, but Scully isn't looking. His footprints are faint in the dusting of snow.

"I guess someone's got to be inside, hmm, Mulder?"

"Absolutely," he affirms.

Outside the theater, people have already begun to line up for the performance, forty-five minutes early. Sleepy children stand patiently swathed in little parkas, hoods and hats and scarves leaving their faces almost invisible. The line stretches halfway around the block and Mulder and Scully join its end. They find themselves standing outside an establishment called J.D.'s Bar where the New Year's revelry is of a different sort. Neon beer signs glow and men gather outside smoking. It's hard to tell their breath from the smoke.

"You know what I could use, Mulder?"

"A nice cold one?"

Scully gives him a look. One of the men laughs.

"Hot cider," says Scully. "There was a stand a couple of blocks back. You can go and get some, and I'll hold our place in line."

"Your wish is my command," says Mulder.

Scully gives him another look, and he departs.

***

Mulder has just finished paying for the cider when a scream echoes down the street, high and shrill. Then another. Then a shout that's very familiar to him: "Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!"

Dropping the styrofoam cups, Mulder runs. He skids to a stop on the icy pavement in front of J.D's Bar, just where he left Scully. A man is standing there, bent nearly double, hands on his head. Scully stands over him with her gun drawn, arms braced, legs spread.

"On the ground!"

The man hesitates, caught between her imperative tone and the puddles of dirty slush on the ground.

"On the ground! Do it!"

Choosing the lesser of two evils, he drops to the sidewalk, lying full length, face down. Scully accepts the handcuffs that Mulder passes to her. She snaps them shut on his wrists with two practiced motions.

Silence. Somewhere nearby a small child is crying. Scully re-engages the safety on her Sig--the sharp click sounds loud--and slides it back into its holster. Everyone is staring.

"What happened?" asks Mulder.

"He decided to pull a knife on an old friend. Holiday spirit, I guess. I just got there in time." Her chest is still heaving, the steam from her breath rising in a halo around her. The man turns his head to the side to look up at her, then thinks better of it.

"Good job," Mulder says, giving her a pat on the shoulder in what he hopes is an understated manner. Scully just nods, still riding the wave of adrenalin.

The police respond within minutes. Scully has to talk with the arresting officer, present her version of events, and Mulder kicks around, digging his toe into the hard-packed snow at the edge of the curb and reflecting on how boring police work is. The spectators seem to feel differently. The performance must have started by now, but this part of the line has hardly moved. Revelers and curious passerby and even families with children are all taking in the spectacle. Near the front of the crowd is a little boy with a glowstick, hat pulled down closely over his ears. His eyes are wide. As soon as he realizes that Mulder is watching him, he looks up with unfeigned admiration.

"Is that a real gun?"

"Sure."

"Are you an undercover cop?"

"No, we're FBI agents--my partner and I." Mulder jerks his chin towards Scully, who's shaking her head in answer to one final question. The perp is being loaded into a police wagon. There go his nice new handcuffs.

"Wow. Can I have your autograph?"

So Mulder gets the glory. Scully just stands there as the police leave and the crowds melt away, hands in the pockets of her long coat, looking down at the dirty, disarranged snow. After signing a couple of autographs and giving the kid a look at his badge, Mulder rejoins her.

"You all right?" he asks, as casually as he can manage.

"Just thinking about all the paperwork."

Lying forgotten in an icy puddle, blending in with the slush, is Scully's cashmere scarf. Mulder picks it up and gingerly offers it to her.

"I guess I can get it dry cleaned," says Scully slowly. Then she looks up at him and smiles, a real, small Scully smile. "What happened to my cider?"

"I dropped it when I came running. Mine too."

"I knew I should have gone for it myself."

"Come on," says Mulder, "I'll get you another one."

And putting an arm around her shoulder, he leads her away, towards hot cider and the new year.


End file.
